


Letters to Sister Bernadette

by aimeejessica



Category: Call the Midwife
Genre: F/M, fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:55:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26282284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimeejessica/pseuds/aimeejessica
Summary: He send's her letters but gets no reply. What is it he sends to her during her stay at Saint Anne's Sanatorium.
Relationships: Bernadette | Shelagh Turner & Patrick Turner, Bernadette | Shelagh Turner/Patrick Turner
Comments: 26
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter One

His mind was plagued.

As he drove back from Saint Anne’s sanatorium, the last few weeks of his memories replayed as vividly as they had happened. Tuberculosis running rampant; pleading to the board for an x-ray van; the overwhelming relief when their pleas were heard; her making a pact with a young girl to help her with the fear of the machine; having to break the news to her that she was ill.

A pit formed in Doctor Turner’s stomach as his mind wandered to the darkest thought. “ _What if she doesn’t return at all?_ ”

He drove to his office, unable to take himself home. Being a home meant he would sit, wonder and over think everything that had happened. He had to focus on something, and he knew there was a stack of papers for him to sort through.

However, on his arrival into the office, he sat himself at his desk, picking up a pen and absentmindedly fiddling with it for a while as he allowed his thoughts to continue. Reaching for a patient folder, he was reminded of a little something tucked away in the bottom of his desk drawer.

Submitting to the fact that he was too emotionally unbalanced to even consider doing any work, he reached to his bottom drawer, pulling out the half full bottle of whiskey and the glass that was nestled in the drawer with it.

And so here Doctor Turner sat, a half smoked Henley balanced between his finger tips, and his free had nursing the glass of whiskey he had poured for himself. None f it seemed to help him as his mind ceased to end its assault. He would have to get his thoughts out, or he figured, he would simply end up melting down until he did.

He picked up his pen once more, this time, he was going to put pen to paper.

‘ _Sister Bernadette,’_ he started writing, but it seemed too informal. Tearing the page from his note pad and discarding it in the waste paper basket, he tried again.

_‘My dear Sister,’_ he tried again. He furrowed his brow and scrubbed a hand over his face, releasing a deep sigh. No, that wasn’t right either. She wasn’t his.

_‘Dearest Sister Bernadette,’_ much better, he thought to himself. Although, not that different to the other letter attempts, he resigned himself to the fact he needed to write it. He was nervous, however, over thinking everything he wanted to say.

_Dearest Sister Bernadette,_

_I told you that I would write to you this week, but I find myself unable to wait that long to be in contact with you again._

_My mind is running rampant as to what to say, and at what to do. Especially for not knowing how long we will be without your presence._

_When I begin to settle myself, I feel in my heart that I must apologise for my untoward behavior over the last few months. You are a woman devoted to a man and I’ve come along and pushed boundaries. I should never have put you in a position in which would cause you to be unfaithful to your vows._

_I should have had more respect for you, Sister._

_Please find it in your heart to forgive me._

_It will undoubtedly take a few days for this letter to be received by you, so I hope that when you read this, that you are looked after well and that your treatment has commenced._

_Once again, I am most apologetic for my behavior._

_Well wishes and regards,_

_Doctor P. Turner._

* * *

“Not even a week in and you already have letters coming in,” the nurse stated as she wandered to the veranda.

Sister Bernadette, in cap and dressing gown, looked up at the woman, feigning a quick smile, graciously accepted the letters before casting he gaze back to the few patients in the garden.

Her mind was in turmoil, and watching other’s lives go on, helped to distract her from all that swirled in her mind. She felt as though she was losing her faith. When she knelt by her bed at night, all silent, she would spend time praying, or trying to pray, to God. This was something she usually cherished, but she felt as though God’s presence had silenced, and the worry of her illness and of _him_ screamed at her.

She felt as though her soul was being shredded, and she wondered if the pain she felt, was an echo of the pain God felt because she was losing her connection to him.

The diagnosis of tuberculosis worried her. She was as knowledgeable and understanding of religion as she was medicine. She knew the early diagnosis and commencement of tuberculosis had positive success rates, but with the feeling of disconnection from her faith, would this impact her ability to recover. Would her words of prayer fall on deaf ears? Would it negatively affect her prognosis?

As she tried hard to focus on the patients outside, her fingers mindlessly played with the corners of the half dozen envelopes rested in her lap. Pulling her eyes from the outside world, she cast her gaze to the letters, quickly scanning the backs of them for sender details.

‘ _Sister Julienne,_ ’ she thought, smiling at her dearest friend’s familiar handwriting. _‘Trixie, Jenny, a joint letter from Sister Monica Joan and Sister Evangelina.’_

Her heart stopped for a moment as her eyes read over the familiar scrawl of Doctor Turner. She sighed, her heart now thundering behind her ribs, she said a quick prayer for strength and guidance, before slotting his letter in the bible that was tucked at her side.

She knew she needed time to find herself, and the letter being out of sight would surely keep it out of her mind.


	2. Chapter 2

Several weeks at Saint Anne’s had passed uneventfully for Sister Bernadette. At least once a week, the nurse would deliver her mail. This seemed to keep some of the boredom at bay, occupying a good couple of hours of the young nun’s time as she penned out responses, to all but one.

She would often receive updates from her fellow nuns and midwives about the daily occurrences at Nonnatus House. She relished the updates and longed to go back to normal life; however, she wasn’t sure what was normal for her at this point.

Sister Bernadette had received more letters from _him_ than anyone else, and on occasion, her nurse would deliver a second batch of letters in one week, almost always comprising of the illegible scrawl of that of a doctor. She tried, in vain, to ignore the growing pile of letters from him. She could no longer quietly slot them between the pages of her bible, and instead she now put them to the back of her nightstand.

As the evening of her third week in the sanatorium came around, she sat on the edge of her bed, glancing around the plain room that housed her. It reminded her of her chamber at Nonnatus. A bare wooden cross strung above the head of the bed, a nightstand decorated only with a lamp and her worn bible, a small closet that housed her spare habit and the borrowed suitcase, off it hung a small mirror, and an arm chair tucked in the corner.

With his letters tucked safely in her nightstand, she felt at peace. She had received no mail today, and so the innocent mentions of Doctor Turner or his son in her usual letters left him out of sight and out of mind. She felt most at ease on the days that she didn’t receive mail, clearing her mind to continue to heal physically and spiritually.

This particular evening, and for the first time since her admission, Sister Bernadette had made the decision to don her habit in full, complete with prayer veil, and bide her time in prayer in the sanatorium chapel. She was most relieved to find the chapel empty upon her arrival.

Clutching at the wooden cross strung from her neck, she quietly walked the room, up the aisle and setting herself in one of the front row pews. The closer she found herself to God, the heavier the cross felt around her neck.

Closing her eyes and taking a shaky breath, she started to sing.

 _‘Have mercy upon me, O’ God, after thy great goodness. According to the multitude of thy mercies do away mine offences,’_ she couldn’t stop, singing the only hymn she felt appropriate. _‘Wash me throughly from my wickedness, and cleanse me from my sin. For I acknowledge my faults, and my sin is ever before me. Against thee only have I sinned, and done this evil in thy sight; that thou mightiest be justified in thy saying, and clear when thou shalt judge’_

Sister Bernadette struggled with the remainder of her prayer; her lungs burned, unable to bare the strain she proceeded put them through. Tears escaped the outer corners of her eyes, marking their route down her pale cheeks. Her sorrow was silent, but it caused great hurt as she collapsed to her knees.

Unaware was she, that the nurse that frequented her with her mail, had entered the chapel, enamoured by the haunting voice that echoed throughout. She had rushed to the young nun upon her collapse, noting the struggle for breath as she sang.

Placing a hand upon Sister Bernadette’s shoulder, she attempted to help the woman to her feet. “C’mon Sister, let’s get you to bed,”

The silent tears turned to a heaving sob, followed by a rough bout of coughing. She shrugged the nurse off her shoulder, wanting to be left alone, feeling shame. “I need to finish my prayers,” she managed to breath out.

“I’m sure He would understand why your prayers have been cut short,” the nurse tried to reason. “C’mon now, this won’t be helping your lungs. You sound a fright, and you need to rest.”

The small woman sat unmoved, still on her knees, staring at the stained glass windows in front of her. “It’s like he’s abandoned me,” she cried. “I need to finish this, for it is my sin that I need to beg for his forgiveness.”

“Sister, you and I both know you need to rest to heal, and I’m certain He knows this too. Finish your prayers when you wake in the morrow,”

Sister Bernadette had eventually given in to the nurse, allowing herself to be lead to her room. She thought it more of a _cell_ after the events of that evening.

* * *

She hadn’t slept at all that night. Her attempt at worship had only torn her heart in two. She had sang and prayed for forgiveness, but her heart ached for another life; a life where she could felt she could be happy.

She forewent Lauds. It wasn’t out of disobedience, it was more for the fact that they were the morning prayers after she had awoken, and how could she say those prayers when she hadn’t slept a wink. Rising from her bed, she stood in front of her small mirror, her gaze fixating upon the shadows that formed around her eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time she had stood in front of a mirror, staring at herself, hoping that her reflection would hold the answers for her.

Her hands made their way to the white cap that covered her scalp. She traced the hemline that sat below her own hair line, remembering how exhilarated she had felt to remove it a little over a year ago. Untying the thread at her nape, she allowed herself to pull the cap away. She almost didn’t recognize herself as her hair came into view.

Her reflection weakly smiled at her. It was in this moment that the turmoil brewing in her soul, calmed. She wanted to read his letters.

* * *

_Dearest Sister Bernadette,_

_I hope this letter finds you in good health and spirits. I await a communication from you, but I do so patiently._

_I thought perhaps I would give you a small update on life outside Saint Anne’s walls._

_Clinic is as busy as ever, and your presence is missed by everyone. I admire the work that you Nonnatun’s do for the people of Poplar. East London is impoverished and you all manage to leave smiles on everyone’s faces._

_Some of those smiles have been missing with your absence, mine included._

_Sister Julienne has noticed my lower mood, and has offered for Timothy and myself to join Nonnatus House for dinner tonight. Timothy has been talking about it all afternoon, I’m sure he craves a diet of more than just the usual from the chippery down the road._

_Please let me know of how you are, and how your treatments are coming along._

_I must leave this letter here as Timothy is nagging me to prepare for dinner tonight._

_Yours truly,_

_Doctor P. Turner_

* * *

Her eyes read that same line over and over until it was etched in her memory. _‘Some of those smiles have been missing with your absence, mine included.’_

There were still four letters sitting unopened from him and she battled with herself as to whether to put herself through the emotional strain of opening and reading them. Her mind was made up for her when the nurse knocked and popped in.

“Good morning, Sister,” she announced, a letter and a little matchbox in hand. She was very quick to backtrack when she noticed the nun’s state of undress. “O-oh, forgive me Sister, I wasn’t aware you were not ready for the day,”

Sister Bernadette looked up at the nurse, smiling weakly at her. She could feel the nurse’s embarrassment wash over her, and it took a quick moment for her to realise it was only because her cap was missing that the nurse was flustered.

“It’s alright,” the nun told her, looking quickly noting the items in her hands. “Are those for me?”

The nurse smiled, having calmed slightly and handed the letter and box over. “Yes they are. I was just coming to check on how you were feeling this morning?”

Sister Bernadette graciously accepted the letter and the matchbox; another letter from the Doctor and the little box from his son. She discarded them to her nightstand. “I am feeling a little better, but today I would like to stay indoors. I didn’t seem to manage to sleep well at all last night,”

The nurse nodded. “I shall bring in your meals, however, you will still need to come out for your treatment, and you know part of that is fresh air,”

Sister Bernadette’s head dropped. If she were to leave the confines of her room, she would have to don her cap, and this freedom she felt from not wearing it was not a feeling she wanted to let go of any time soon. “I understand,”

The nurse took her leave, ensuring the door clicked shut behind her.

Sister Bernadette sighed, perhaps one letter was all she was going to be able to manage to get through today, however the little matchbox that had been sent to her piqued her interest. Tucking Doctor Turner’s letters back into her nightstand, she took the box and pushed it open. Inside was a little butterfly that had a pin pushed through it to ensure its preservation on its journey through the postal system.

Timothy had written to her to see if she could ask any of the medical staff at the sanatorium as to what had befell the poor butterfly as it wasn’t his father’s area of expertise.

Sister Bernadette smiled at the wee note that had been put in the box alongside the butterfly. Perhaps today she would go outside, and perhaps she would like to paint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm hoping for slow burn, but I don't really know how well this is going to work out. Please let me know what you think, or how I could improve, or what you'd like to see? :)


	3. Chapter 3

Sister Bernadette had spent an afternoon in the sanatorium gardens one fine afternoon. The nurse who cared for her had been kind enough to supply the young nun with paper and watercolour paints, and so she had sat, painting the scenery before her.

She intended to send the vibrant image to Doctor Turner’s young son, unfortunately not with any news about the death of the little butterfly he had sent to her. She admired the curiosity that the boy had, always wanting to learn, to further himself. He reminded her much of the Doctor.

With her landscape complete, she had spoken to the nurse about receiving a visitor. The nurse was happy to oblige and had organized for her Sister, and her dear friend, Sister Julienne to visit in the next few days.

* * *

Months had passed in the sanatorium and she had spent a great deal of time reflecting on her position in the religious life. A multitude of letter’s had been received, and she had only sent a handful in return. The two letters she had read from Doctor Turner had caused chaos within her, and she doubted the calling she had once received from God.

It was then that she had decided that she would relinquish contact with the outside world until such a time as she had made her decision as to whether to stay with the order, or renounce her vows. So when she had decided to receive Sister Julienne as a visitor, her mind was made up. She felt shame and guilt confiding in her Sister, but she had no one else to talk to, especially not God, as she had felt she had turned her back on Him.

Sister Julienne had initially been taken aback by Sister Bernadette’s request for clothes, knowing her discharge was only a few days away, and had inquired why she had none. It was only at the young nun’s nervous response in telling her she only had the habit that the pieces seemed to fall into place for the senior Sister. She couldn’t deny that the response had hurt, however, if this is what Sister Bernadette felt was her calling, who was she to hold the young woman back.

That same evening, Sister Bernadette had donned her prayer veil for what she had hoped was the last time. She had carried out her final Compline in the silent sanctuary of the sanatorium chapel, praying to the Almighty for forgiveness for turning her back on him. She had been a devoted disciple for over a decade now, but her calling in a layman’s life had been stronger than her call to her vocation in the religious life.

She had realised, leaving the chapel, that she had been in the right place, however, she had been living the wrong life.

With the Great Silence now upon her, she had returned to her room, pulling out the image she had painted for little Timothy, fingers grazing across the now dried paint. She decided that she would carefully read over Doctor Turner’s letters and in response, she would add a little note to the letter she would send Timothy, not wanting to spend time penning out a letter in response to the Doctor when it seemed better suited for a personal conversation.

* * *

Timothy had joined his father in his surgery one morning before school, clutching a small pile of envelopes.

“The morning post’s arrived,” he had told his father, flipping through the pile, before stopping on one. A smile graced his face, “There’s one for me!” he exclaimed excitedly. He quickly turned over the letter to see who the sender was. “It’s from Sister Bernadette in the sana – sana,”

“Sanatorium,” Doctor Turner had finished for the boy. His heart fell. She had written to his son, but not to himself. The letter’s he had spent hours penning to her seemingly meaning nothing to her. In the few moments of silence, he wondered if Sister Bernadette had meant what she had said that day in the Parish Hall kitchen. _‘At this moment I only know that I’m not turning my back on you because of you, I’m doing it because of Him.’_ He silently cursed at himself for ever kissing her hand.

The sound of paper being torn pulled Doctor Turner from his thought’s, watching his son open and read the letter he had been so blessed to receive.

“It’s a picture!” Timothy had told his father excitedly. “It’s called _‘The View from My Window’_. She says ‘Thank you very much for the dead butterfly, I have passed it onto the doctors here and I am awaiting their verdict. Thank your father for his kind letters, I shall reply to them in due course.’” Timothy looked up at Doctor Turner. “What does _in due course_ mean?”

Butterflies had erupted in his stomach. She _had_ read his letters, however, he couldn’t understand why she hadn’t written him back. “Sometimes it means one-day and, sometimes, it means soon. Off you go now, you’ll be late for school.”

* * *

Sister Bernadette opened her nightstand, reaching to the very back where she had tucked away Doctor Turner’s letters. Two had been opened and she placed those to the side, knowing the contents. She had settled herself on the armchair in her room, taking off her cap, knowing she was very nearly about to cut ties with the order that had been her family. It was only fitting that she start her new life with the letters from the one she loved.

_Dearest Sister Bernadette,_

_As with my previous letter, I hope this finds you in good health. I have heard words around Nonnatus that your treatment goes well, however I am yet to hear that from you myself._

_I am again apologizing for my behavior as I feel this has something to do with the silence that I receive from you._

_Days are long and I don’t seem to have much to look forward to with your presence lacking. You are one of the most gifted midwives, and it has always been a pleasure to work by your side. The other’s are just as competent, but none of them are you._

_Timothy often asks how you are doing and I have made mention to him that he is also able to write to you. I have promised him that I would provide him with a stamp should he want to contact you._

_Please let me know that you are alright._

_Kindest regards,_

_Doctor P. Turner_

A pang of guilt washed over Sister Bernadette as she read this letter. He had pleaded in only her third week at the sanatorium, that she contact him. She now worried what the other letters would hold. Discarding this one, she picked up the next.

_My dear Sister,_

_I am still yet to hear from you. I hope all is well and you are recovering nicely._

_The clinic is busier than ever and with your skills missing, I feel we are running very tight. Fatigue is evident in everyone; even Sister Monica Joan seems worn. Timothy has noticed my exhaustion, often enquiring if I need a holiday. Unfortunately, being the only Doctor in Poplar makes this a little hard._

_It’s a times like these I wish Marianne was still here. She could let Timothy be the child he needs to be, not have him join me on rounds, or earning pocket money cleaning equipment to help out his poor father._

_The day of the fete, I remember you taking my place in the three legged race as I could not be there for him. He had been upset with me for leaving, but I remember bringing him home that night. He couldn’t stop talking about how the pair of you had won. He seemed like the child he should be, and I thank you for bringing him that joy._

_I think that was the day I finally let myself fall completely for you. I shouldn’t have let myself fall, you are sworn to God, but I couldn’t help myself. The absolute happiness that I saw in my son, that you gave him, was everything I had ever wanted for him. With his happiness, comes my happiness._

_That day in the Parish Hall kitchen, where I kissed your injured hand – that was my expression of love for you and the words you had spoken to me haunt me._

_I am no longer asking for forgiveness for what I say. I am desperately hoping that there is even the tiniest reciprocation from you as that would make my whole world._

_Lovingly yours,_

_Doctor P. Turner_

Breathlessness was a sign of tuberculosis; however her current breathlessness was from the words she had read. She let her eyes well with tears, but she dared not blink and allow the tears to fall. Her heart thundered deep in her chest. Doctor Turner had seemingly likened her presence in Timothy’s life, to that of his own mother. With her newfound calling, she so desperately longed to be a mother.

Adding this newly read letter to the growing pile of read letters, she pulled out another, carefully unfolding it and tracing his words with her fingertips as if somehow it would bring her closer to him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like there will only be one more chapter after this.  
> I have decided to leave a few of the letter's for the next chapter.  
> I hope you enjoyed this <3


	4. Chapter 4

Sister Bernadette had spent hours sitting in her armchair reading sifting through the letters she had received from Doctor Turner. It had been an emotional journey, that’s for sure. He had quoted her the day in the Parish Hall kitchen, ‘ _At this moment I only know that I’m not turning my back on you because of you, I’m doing it because of him_.’ Those words had hung in her mind in the months she had said them.

Now, as she thought about those words, she knew she wasn’t turning her back on Doctor Turner anymore. She had full intentions of calling the man she had fallen for, to let him know of her pending discharge. She found herself day dreaming about their reunion. Would it be an awkward reunion, she wondered. She had left him in complete silence since being admitted to the sanatorium and she had hoped he would stay the course, his feelings laid on his sleeve.

Her feelings had been masked in her lack of communication; save for the brief part in her reply to Timothy, telling the boy that she would contact his father in due course.

This brought her to her final and most recent letter from her beloved.

_My darling,_

_I have decided that this will be the final letter I will send you._

_I have secretly hoped that you’ve taken the time to read my letters but the silence I have received from you is too much for my heart to bear. I have laid my feelings for you on the table and it is now up to you as to what will come of them._

_Being my final letter, I want to indulge you in the inner workings of my mind. I want you to know the full extent you have had on my being, the way you haunt my dreams, the feelings you elicit in me and the want I have of you._

_I have known you for a decade now. I have seen you grow into this amazing woman, faithful to her devotion. I have seen you struggle through the game that is life and death. And I have come to love and respect you as not only a colleague, skilled at her job, but also as a friend._

_When Marianne passed, I was broken. I thought with her loss, that I would never know love for a woman again, but in the past year you have kick started my heart again and I open it to you._

_Every night I fall asleep, wishing for you to be at my side. And every morning I wake with a heavy heart knowing you are not with me. In the moments of sleep I do have, I dream of you. The sound of your voice echoing in my mind so clearly that I wake wondering if I was dreaming or if it was real._

_Every time I close my eyes, I see your face. I may not have seen you without the habit, but I imagine what you look like, bared to me in only the way a woman would bare herself to a man._

_I imagine what it would be like to caress your face, or what it would be like to run my fingers through your hair._

_I lastly imagine what it would be like for you to be with me until the end._

_The love you could provide Timothy, the love you could provide me to mend my frail heart._

_And it is with this letter that I tell you I am hopelessly devoted to you. I have fallen so far in love with you that I cannot imagine my life without you._

_If this letter receives no reply, I make the assumption that you do not feel the same, or that you are so devoted to your Faith that a man’s love could never sway you from your calling._

_Like I said to you the day of the fete, if I couldn’t accept that, I wouldn’t deserve to live._

_You have my heart._

_Forever yours,_

_Patrick._

* * *

Doctor Turner was making an attempt to busy himself with work. Lack of patients meant he was sitting idle, and with Timothy on a mid-term break, he had to somehow keep the boy entertained too. Frustration was building inside the man. He looked towards a box of equipment perched on his desk, a quick thought coming to mind.

“Right. Petri dishes, test tubes, pipettes.” He listed. “I want you to count them, list them and wash them.” That would keep Timothy busy for a while, knowing the boy would demand pocket money for his work.

Timothy grabbed the box off the desk, muttering about how he hated half term, and proceeded to carry out the chore his father had set for him.

Doctor Turner almost wanted to breathe a sigh of relief as the surgery phone rang. He hoped it was one of the nurses calling for assistance with a patient; anything would do to keep the man sitting idle and drowning in his own thoughts. Raising the receiver to his ear, “Morning,” he answered quickly.

“I’ve been discharged.”

He knew that voice anywhere. It was the same one that plagued his mind during lonely times. “Sister Bernadette?”

“I’m supposed to go to Chichester,” she told him, her Scottish accent making his heart race within his chest. “But I won’t go.”

“Why’s that?”

“I thought for a long time that I was in the wrong place. I wasn’t. I was just living the wrong life.”

Doctor Turner couldn’t hold his tongue, wanting answers from the woman who had kept him at a distance for the last several months. “I wrote to you.” Her only acknowledgement was a simple yes. His stomach felt like it had opened into a sinkhole, his world beginning to fall into the void. “I don’t know if I said too much,” he paused for a moment. “Or not enough,” he held his breath, silently hoping she would finally acknowledge all he had sent her.

“You said what was necessary.” She waited a moment, plucking up the courage to give him some hope. “And I’m coming back to Poplar,”

Doctor Turner was certainly nervous, his fingers twisting around the telephone cord. “When?”

“Today,” she told him, almost hearing his excitement through the static of the connection. “There are procedures to be gone through.”

“It’ll be months before you’re fully fit! You need to rest! And to convalesce,” He tried to make himself sound as professional as he could, however, the pit in his stomach that had only opened up moments before, seemed to be filling with butterflies. The thought of having her home brought him joy.

“I’ve had enough rest to kill a mule! And I know my own mind for the first time in many months, which I find remarkably invigorating.” The woman felt as if a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. “I’m on my way to catch the bus.”

The Doctor worried for a moment. She was still recovering from what could have quite easily been a fatal illness. “You are not travelling thirty miles by public transport!” He stooped low enough to try and plead with her. “Sister Bernadette…”

She cut him off. “Forgive me, but I don’t answer to that name anymore.”

Doctor Turner quickly became annoyed as the sight of Chummy came into his doorway, dragging him to a patient. He apologised to the woman on the other end of the connection, knowing she would understand.

* * *

As soon as he was able, Doctor Turner left the surgery, racing for his car to pick up the woman he was so desperately in love with. He was given quite the startle as he realised Timothy was sitting in the passenger seat, ready to join his father.

“I’ve finished, and you owe me half a crown.” The boy told his father, very matter-of-factly. “I thought I’d come with you on your rounds.”

It wasn’t the boy’s fault that he was sitting in the car, and there was no way Doctor Turner could take it out on him, but his presence somewhat annoyed the man. “I’m not going on my rounds.”

The Doctor was a man on a mission, wasting no time in hitting the road, using the drive as an opportunity to tell Timothy everything. It would be wrong to hide anything from his son. He was a sharp kid, and if Doctor Turner was going to bring a woman into his life, it also meant bringing her into Timothy’s life. The relief he felt when Timothy had given his father his blessing had meant the world to him.

Timothy had grown to love the Nun just as much as his father did, and in his childish excitement, he hung his head out the window in the hopes of helping the Doctor find the woman.

“If I see her, shall I shout at her? Shall I shout _‘Stop! Sister Bernadette!?’_ ” The boy was hard to hear as the breeze whipped his voice away.

“No, leave the talking to me,” Doctor Turner told him. Truth be told, he was glad his son was with him, another pair of eyes certainly would help trying to spot the woman in the heavy fog that settled across the road ahead.

The Doctor felt as though he had been driving the same, foggy road for hours now. He was so focused on finding the Nun that he lost all concept of time. That was, until Timothy yelled about seeing a woman in the wrong clothes.

That couldn’t be her could it?

The closer the vehicle came to the figure, the more certain he was that his son was correct. Doctor Turner’s heart thudded rapidly in his ribs as he watched the figure turn stop, turn around and place the two suitcases she was carrying on the ground. She was waiting for him.

In a matter of moments, Doctor Turner had pulled the car to a stop, cut the engine and ran down the road to the woman, meeting her face to face. The professional in him worried about her health, quickly placing a hand to her forehead to check her temperature.

The connection of flesh to flesh felt like electricity between them, and he noticed how she visibly relaxed at his touch. “What if it had started raining?” he questioned, quickly shedding himself of his coat and wrapping it around her, ensuring to hold her close. “What if you’d got lost?”

“I was lost.” She meant it in more way than one. She was lost on her path to faith, but now she was found, in the arms of the man she had fallen hopelessly in love with. “I got the wrong bus,” she gave him a weak smile, not breaking eye contact.

“I was on the right road,” he told her simply.

“Yes. I know you so little, but I couldn’t be more certain.” She told him. There was no need for her to have ever replied to his letters because he knew exactly what she had meant.

“I am completely certain,” he told her. “I don’t even know your name,”

She smiled at him. “Shelagh,”

“Patrick.”

“There. We’ve made a start.”

-end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt that I had to wrap this fic up with the end of S2 E8, I didn't feel like I could do it justice myself.  
> Hopefully you enjoyed a little elaboration on feelings and thoughts they were having.
> 
> Thank you for sticking with the fic. 
> 
> I should be updating my other fic "Love and War" by the weekend, and the final chapter to Behind Closed Doors should be out early next week!


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